Spies, Lies and Murder

1

Forty-eight, only two more lengths to go. Angela counted to stop her brain fitting the pieces of the jigsaw together. The solution to the puzzle might remove the last vestiges of hope. Better to leave the past be than to unleash its secrets into the present. Forty-nine, she glided through the water, her slow relaxed strokes brought her to the end of the pool. She pulled off her hat and googles. Light streaming through the bi fold doors sparkled on the surface of the water. The view across the terrace no longer obscured by an alien spacecraft. Behind her the door crashed open.

‘Only me.’

‘Good evening, Richard.’ Thank goodness she’d finished her fifty lengths and could escape.

‘I see the film company have dismantled all their props. Have you heard, the penthouse has sold.’

‘No.’ A lie, but necessary to avoid a conversation she didn’t want to have.

‘Someone moving from London, most likely.’ Richard lowered himself into the jacuzzi.

‘Let’s hope the charm of living in the middle of nowhere doesn’t fade when they discover no one will deliver a takeaway pizza, and you have to get into your car to buy a pint of milk.’ Angela climbed out of the pool. She would forgo her five minutes in the jacuzzi and avoid the sight of Richard’s voluminous shorts billowing in the bubbles revealing more than she wished to see. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’

Invigorated from her swim, Angela emerged from the Manor House into the unseasonably warm autumn evening. She walked past the mews cottages and turned onto the lane, redwoods towering above her. As she entered the square of detached houses, lights came on at Number 36. The distraction of testing her skills against the recently installed alarm system would have to be postponed. Now the evening stretched before her. She unlocked her front door and turned off the alarm. The silence of the house still felt strange. She poured a gin and tonic, ignoring the laptop on the kitchen table mocking her for her cowardice. She took her drink out to the summerhouse at the bottom of the garden. A group of deer were feasting on the acorns under the single oak tree in the centre of the paddock. Beyond them a light glistened amongst the hedgerow. Angela set her phone camera to burst mode. Scrolling through the photos, she enlarged the last one. Just as she feared, she was being watched. The pulse in her neck throbbed. She couldn’t sit here. If she was quick, she might get a look at whoever was spying on her.

A bridleway went across the estate towards the railway crossing. Angela picked her way through the debris of leaves and acorns, listening out for any sounds ahead of her. The clang of the railway crossing gate rang out followed by the roar of a car engine starting up. When she got to the crossing, she opened the gate and hurried across the track. A black range rover sped off, the numberplate unreadable. She walked to the cottage on the corner and waved at the woman sitting in the front garden.

‘Evening Francesca.’

‘Hi Angela, fancy a sundowner?’

‘Perhaps a small one.’ Angela pushed open the garden gate.

‘Won’t be a tick.’ Francesca vanished into the cottage in a waft of chiffon.

‘Here you go,’ Francesca handed a glass to Angela. ‘So, did you meet anyone famous last week?’

‘I did see Justin Lovegood wandering in the grounds, but the area where they were filming was cordoned off. Amazing how much preparation went into only a couple of days of actual filming. Anyway, changing the subject, did you notice a man driving off just now?’

‘Yes, damn cheek, he’d parked on the grass verge opposite, ignoring the no parking sign. He could’ve been a birdwatcher, he had a pair of binoculars around his neck.’

A birdwatcher would be coming from the direction of the nature reserve, not Merton Park. Angela shivered.

2

The tennis ball bounced in the corner of the service box and thwacked into the fence.

‘Glad I’m not on the other side of the net.’

Angela turned to the man standing by the gate into the court. He raised his hand. ‘Hi Angie.’

She walked around the net and put her tennis racket into her bag. ‘I thought it might be you, Amani, when I heard rumours of Idris Elba being spotted on the filmset. I must be losing my touch if you clocked me checking you out the other day.’

‘It’s been a long time, but you’ve hardly changed.’

‘If only that were true. I might say the same about you, apart from the touch of grey but it adds to your gravatas. So, are you sussing out the neighbours before Justin Lovegood moves into the penthouse?’

‘Why doesn’t it surprise me you know about that?’

‘Most of the residents won’t know who Justin is. He wandered around the gardens and no-one took any notice of him, assuming he was part of the film crew.’

Amani glanced at the manor beyond the tennis court. ‘It might be different when the film is released.’

‘I don’t think a film about the SAS tackling an alien invasion is the type of film many of the residents of Merton Park would watch.’ Angela grabbed her bag. ‘Come on let’s find somewhere private to talk.’

The veranda of the small round hut provided a secluded view of the fields at the edge of the estate.

‘This place is amazing.’ Amani sat next to Angela. ‘How did you end up here?’

‘Stephen and I dreamt of moving to the country, but living in a dilapidated cottage at the end of a rutted lane with no neighbours didn’t appeal. Then we found this place and it seemed ideal, a modern house in rural surroundings with amenities.’

‘How is Stephen?’

‘Oh, he’s very happy now he’s come out.’

Amani’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Sadly not. I thought it was me with the secret life but all along it was him.’

‘And what about you, Angie?’

Angela gazed out over the field. The little family of deer were back but this time keeping close to the far hedgerow. ‘Honestly, I’m a bit envious. Stephen is free to live his life without pretending to be someone he’s not. But sad I’ve lost my best friend.’ It still hurt to talk about her marriage breakup. ‘I assume you achieved your ambition of going freelance, since you’re minding film stars like Justin Lovegood.’

‘Yeah, well that was an easy gig. Not to mention the fantastic grub they serve from those catering trucks.’

‘A world away from the old job then.’

‘There’s always some stress, but I feel more in control.’ Amani put a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘After Phil going missing, well you know.’

Angela’s eyes stung and she blinked back the unwelcome tears. ‘I’ve been looking for him.’

‘Angie, that’s a bad idea.’

‘You’re right, especially as I may have found evidence he’s dead.’

Amani put his arm around Angela, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

‘I should have left well alone, then I could always imagine him somewhere alive and happy. I thought…’ she shook her head, ‘I don’t know, I felt adrift and latched on to the idea that going back into my past would help me find some purpose to my life again.’ She wasn’t ready to admit a driving force was loneliness.

‘Lucky I bumped into you then. I have the perfect assignment for you.’

‘Are you offering me a job?’

‘Kinda, an old contact got in touch with a proposition for me. The job really needs a woman and currently I don’t have one to spare.’

Angela laughed, ‘That doesn’t sound like the Amani I knew.’

‘I was young. I have a wife and two kids now. Here,’ Amani took his phone out. ‘Zola, she’s ten and Kofi, he’ll be seven next month.’

‘They look adorable, Kofi has the same twinkle in his eye as his dad.’

He smiled and put his phone away. ‘The job is working with one of the residents here in Merton Park.’

‘So you turning up wasn’t serendipity?’

Amani held his hands up. ‘I swear finding you living here was a coincidence. I left the force years ago and you know the security around keeping identities concealed.’

‘So, what is this job?’ Angela didn’t believe in coincidences, but in the past, she’d trusted Amani with her life.

‘Do you know Brigette Royston?’

‘She lives in one of the cottages on the edge of the estate, but I heard she’s moved into a retirement home after a fall.’

‘Her son wants to put the cottage on the market, but she’s lived there for decades. How are you at house clearance?’

‘What?’ Angela stood and a startled pheasant shot out of the undergrowth with a loud squawk. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I know. It sounds crazy but hear me out. Mrs Royston’s husband worked for one of the security services. There’s reliable intelligence that a file is concealed in the cottage which could have ramifications if it came to light.’

‘Why can’t whoever has this intelligence search for it themselves?’

Amani shrugged. ‘Guess they want to keep a low profile. You said you were looking for a new focus.’

‘Becoming a declutterer wasn’t what I had in mind.’

‘It would be the perfect cover though.’

‘My days working undercover are over, remember.’ Angela clenched her hands to stop them from shaking.

‘Oh God Angie, I’m sorry, bloody stupid of me.’

‘It was a long time ago.’ Not long enough for the traumatic memories to fade away, but sorting through an old lady’s possessions would be a welcome distraction. She sighed. ‘Okay I’ll give it a go.’

‘Thanks Angie.’ Amani gave her a hug. ‘It really is good to see you.’

He strode away in the direction of the visitor car park. Despite the affront to her pride the job piqued Angela’s curiosity. She should have told Amani about being watched, but the mention of Phil’s name pushed it out of her mind.

3

Angela stood outside Jasmine Cottage and breathed in the cool fresh air. James Royston was late. A robin landed on the garden fence, tilted its head towards her, then fluttered to the ground and started pecking in the soil. The roar of an engine broke the tranquil atmosphere as a Ferrari pulled up. The driver unfurled his tall frame from the car with ease. He swept off his cap revealing a full head of dark hair with a smattering of grey and thrust out his hand.

‘James Royston, and you must be Mrs Jackson.’

‘Angela.’

‘Well Angela, this is my mother’s cottage. I’ve been trying to get her to see living on her own at ninety-three is not practical. Then she had a fall and I moved her into The Meadows. She’s too frail to live on her own, she’s much better off in a retirement home with people on hand to look after her.’

‘How long did she live here?’

‘She and my father moved here, must be getting on sixty years ago. There’s a lot to do before it can go on the market. Mother vetoed using a house clearing firm and someone at the golf club suggested you could provide a more personal service. You’ll have to agree with mother what she wants to move into her apartment. The garden needs attention and those gnomes will have to go.’ He waved his arm in the direction of the front garden.

The beady eyes of several brightly coloured gnomes were visible in the long grass. The flouting of management committee rules suggested it would be a mistake to underestimate Mrs Royston despite her son’s disparaging remarks.

‘God knows why she collected those hideous things. Once I hid her favourite, that one with the fishing rod, and she went mad.’ He walked towards the front door. ‘There’s a burglar alarm and you must be careful to deactivate it, otherwise the security company will be ringing me.’

An hour in James Royston’s company confirmed Angela’s initial impression he was a snobbish bore. He quibbled about minor details in the contract she gave him before he signed it. The paperwork and business cards supplied by Amani, along with a website, were impressive.

After her evening swim, Angela went to the summer house. The closed community of Merton Park provided a level of security far superior to her previous house, but since Stephen left, a wariness crept up on her accompanied with the return of her hypervigilance. Scanning the horizon did not provide evidence of anyone spying on her and she returned to the house.

4

The next morning Angela walked out of the square and down the lane to Jasmine Cottage. She turned off the alarm and went into the kitchen. A plethora of cake tins suggested Mrs Royston was a keen baker. Angela’s only memory of her was at an annual residents meeting. Shell-shocked from the fractious exchanges between certain residents and the management committee, Stephen and Angela went into the manor’s spacious entrance hall where wine and nibbles were laid out. Mrs Royston, surveying the nibbles, gave a loud tut and said, ‘I wouldn’t try those cheese straws, shop bought and probably past their sell by date.’ Without waiting for a reply, she went to sit in a leather chair in an alcove. Brigitte Royston intrigued Angela, it would be good to get to know her.

The drawer of an ancient wooden desk in the study held neatly labelled files. Angela hunted through them, but the labels were an accurate reflection of the contents, no surprise none of them were marked top secret. Only the attic remained to be searched, most likely crammed full of forgotten objects after so many years.

The loft hatch creaked as Angela pushed it aside and stuck her head into the attic. Cobwebs draped across her face, the air smelt musty. A shaft of watery sunlight shone through a circular window, highlighting dust motes floating in the air above an assortment of boxes holding nothing of interest. Angela grasped the rough clasp of an old brown trunk and opened the lid. Inside were several folders of photographs on top of faded velvet curtains. She shone the torch on her mobile into the far corners of the attic. No sign of roosting bats - a pity she couldn’t deliver news that would annoy James Royston. The light fell on a strap sticking out from behind the water tank. At the back of the tank, a faded canvas rucksack lay next to a small suitcase. She grabbed the leather handle of the case and heaved it out. The catches were rusty, but the lid opened to reveal a kind of radio with dials and symbols beside them, and some headphones. Angela took pictures with her mobile. She closed the case and pulled the canvas rucksack towards her. An old camera lay at the bottom. She took the suitcase and the camera with the folders of photographs and put them by the front door. After spending time in the dusty attic, she needed some fresh air before meeting with James to give an update on her progress.

Angela took the footpath between the rhododendron bushes opposite Jasmine Cottage. A gentle incline brought her to the crest of a hill with views across the estate. To her left a roe deer raised its head, its ears pricked in her direction. Angela stood still until reassured it returned to eating grass. Angela took a deep breath - strange for Amani to enter her life again at another turning point. On the first occasion he helped her eradicate her past. Now moving on could involve resurrecting part of that previous life. A lightness came over her. She could decide the direction she took, rather than being shoved along by forces over which she had no control. She walked back to Jasmine Cottage and took the suitcase, camera and photos to her house.

Before Angela could update James, he subjected her to a tirade about his difficulty persuading his mother to move into residential care. Amani owed her big time.

‘Anyway, she’s expecting you tomorrow. I’ve got an estate agent coming down from London, Wednesday next week. Giles wants photos whilst the cottage is still furnished. So, get rid of the junk and leave the good furniture in place. The garden will need to be spruced up, and those gnomes will have to go. Giles said they can put off potential buyers.’

‘Henry, who looks after the grounds at Merton Park, will be able to tidy the garden and I emailed a company yesterday who might buy the gnomes.’ After hours on the internet trawling through bizarre websites devoted to the history and mythology of gnomes, Angela found a business dealing in antique garden ornaments.

The door of the pub opened and a stout balding man came in and walked over to the bar. He glanced in their direction, his eyes were deep-set and his bulbous veined nose suggested a liking for red wine, confirmed when the barman placed a large glass in front of him.

James nodded at the man then turned to Angela. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’

The conceit, dismissing her as if she’d been wasting his valuable time whilst he’d moaned about his mother. In the car park, a scruffily dressed man leant against a blue Astra, the rim of a baseball cap obscuring his face. He had a shifty look about him. Probably waiting for a friend, but Angela committed the car’s numberplate to memory.

Later, settled at her desk with a glass of wine, Angela turned on her laptop. Google Lens confirmed her suspicion. The radio from the attic was Russian, a spy radio from the 1960’s, known by its codename Shmel, or Bumblebee. This assignment promised to be intriguing.